


The Commission

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Robot/Human Relationships, Sexual Fantasy, Workplace Sex, but definitely mostly about sigma jerking it so, have fun, it's uhhh kinda horny but kinda cute??, the pairing is mostly implied and fantasized about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: His research is important, fascinating, and above most people, and that is perfectly fine with him. It does, however, leave few options for company...especially of a more...intimatevariety.





	The Commission

**Author's Note:**

> Voted on by my peeps on twitter! Same username if you want to follow me there for more horny shitposting. :)

He’s been avoiding his inbox for the better part of an hour. Dr. de Kuiper is a man of work first and foremost, especially when it comes to his own. Endlessly interesting, endlessly _frustrating_, scribbling and murmuring equations under his breath long after everyone had departed for the evening. Even security knew to ignore him by now. They probably gossiped about the strange, old doctor who played symphonies through the sound systems well into the night, but he doesn’t care what they think. His research is important, fascinating, and above most people, and that is perfectly fine with him.

It does, however, leave few options for company...especially of a more..._intimate _variety. 

His eyes dart to his fourth holo screen, scanning the newest email’s subject line for the _nth _time in as many minutes. It’s the very message he’s been trying to ignore, but it’s right _there_, accessible with a single touch, lingering insistently between his thoughts. He hasn’t penned a proper equation in the last ten minutes.

Maybe just one look. He’ll read the opening to tide him over. He taps the holo screen, glancing behind him at the laboratory door. The space is cavernous, and he’s well hidden from any wayward eyes that might see what he’s just opened, but a flush creeps along his cheeks even so.

_Attached you’ll find your commission. Hope you enjoy!_

Siebren hopes so too. He licks his lips and leans forward in his chair, eyes advancing greedily on the copy attached. It is neither dry nor academic. He has money enough to request works to match his _particular _tastes, and this author he very much enjoyed. They had a certain rhythm to their prose, like notes in a song, sensual with just the right build to the, er, _coda_. 

He clears his throat, the tips of his ears burning from the opening lines alone, memory interlacing with prose. The hero is, of course, a beleaguered scientist who’s misunderstood by his peers. Not physically attractive, but with a certain charm, a charm that catches the, eye, well, gaze, of the maintenance omnic that works the graveyard shift. No such omnic did Siebren actually attract, but there was one that served as his inspiration. Vihaan-9: a towering construction model who did extra shifts at the laboratory, those many large arms lifting equipment twice his size and maintenancing the most delicate instruments with mesmerizing synchronicity. 

_The scientist doesn’t notice the omnic’s advance until he’s nearly upon him. He had been staying later and later, and exhaustion has ways of dulling the senses. Suddenly a hand, many, _many _hands, descend, cupping his throat, his biceps, feeling down one hip, huge fingers teasing, petting wherever they land, temptations, promises. His synth is low and graveled when he asks the scientist in no uncertain terms if he dreamed about this, had he been waiting for him to make his move, had he stayed late so they could be alone? The words murmured so close he feels it in his skin, the synth’s vibrations shivering along the back of his throat._

Siebren crosses his legs, stealing another glance at the door. Though it’s late, he isn’t exactly alone, not with the camera and the guards, not when the maintenance team (and Vihaan-9) work their shifts none the wiser.

_The scientist moans, stilted and broken, immediately flushing from the sound. The omnic chuckles._

_“I never imagined you’d be so _cute_.”_

_Oh_...he tightens his grip on his chin, eyes roving line to line, clinging to every word. There’s no denying the heat tightening his lower belly, the thickened jut of his slacks, the shivery ache stealing over him. 

Maybe. He licks his lips. He does have...contingency plans for this short of thing. But it’s so impossibly unprofessional... 

He reads on with a set jaw, imaging those hands on him, a single one large enough to encircle his throat completely, squeezing just enough to make his mind sing and cock throb while still more massage his thighs, unzip him, gently urge his cock free with a lilting hum and dexterous fingers—

With an abrupt wave of his hands, he sets the camera to loop the last thirty minutes of footage. Then he turns the music louder, the opening material of Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu, Op. 6 swelling through the room.

If he’s quick, no one would ever know.

Siebren softly bites his hand as he continues to half-read, half-imagine, the story fading, taking on new life as his hips rise to meet his touch. He palms at himself at first, cups along the length of his cock, wishing his hands were larger, made of material infinitely stronger than flesh and bone. Siebren can’t recall the last time he’s done this, too busy, passing out as soon as he hit the mattress only to wake at dawn and do the same thing over again. The needs of a body so easily fall to the wayside, leaving him bleary-minded and a little more than desperate at the worst of times. His own fault, damned email, if only he’d had the restraint—

The frustrated loathing retreats when he finally gets his hand on bare, heated skin, touching the base of his cock, drawing it up until it pops out of his briefs. Deeply flushed, like an alien thing in his hand, painfully hard; he draws his palm along it once and winces at the pleasure that shoots up his spine. Pathetic, desperate—he wants to make quick work of himself, eyelids fluttering, trapped between the words on the page and his own hand, the gentle squeak of his chair as he humps forward. 

Oh—not enough, not nearly—he grasps the base of his cock harshly, biting back a percussive grunt, his other hand shooting down to trace beneath his glans, gliding smooth with his own pre, copious and embarrassing. If only he had something more, if he had lube—something here would work, surely, but he can’t, much too messy. Having his fingers buried inside him, leaned over the desk where anyone could see him spread and stuffing himself full...he swallows his whimpers; the potency of his mind would have to be enough. He curls forward, his forehead nearly meeting his desk, working one hand in tender little half-tugs just beneath his glans, bringing him startling, achingly close in the span of several heartbeats. Siebren wants to be teased, wants to be caught, to be at another’s mercy, for a few, breathtaking moments to forget the figures and equations and the music crashing through the air—lost within their touch—

He doesn’t feel like himself, too hot, too large for his own skin, the wet _schlick schlick schlick_ of his fist audible even beneath the melody’s building crescendo; he bites his lip hard, tastes the copper bloom, forehead meeting the table as he groans once, sweat sliding along its smooth surface, the steam of his breath pressing back against his face. If only someone, if _he_, would bare down on him, pin him to his own desk, trapped beneath his massive weight and all those hands, scatter the delicate materials and fuck him senseless in front of his life’s work like it’s little more than scenery for their ephemeral carnality—

Fear steals over him, a stark realization: it’s too much, he can’t trust himself to be quiet, he’ll be spotted after all—he grips his cock in a vice, but it’s too late, the overwhelming swell of pleasure unstoppable, and it’s all he can do to stymie his own pealing groans, guttural and punched out, barely muffled by his closed mouth. Even as he barely works himself, the pulsations have a life of their own, like a possession, ropes of cum looping over his gently curled palm and dribbling to the floor as he squirms and writhes and sets his jaw against his own needful sounds. 

He’s breathing like he does during endurance trials, shameful, stupid, worked up, thoughts smoothed away by the warm, sleep-like satisfaction settling into his bones; bright, potent aftershocks keeping him pleasantly on edge.

“Dr. de Kuiper?”

An all too coveted voice inquires within a new song’s quiet cadenza.

Siebren snaps up, rigid as a board. Who? How? From this angle he couldn’t be seen, but the fear slices into his guts like a buried knife. 

“Elevated heart rate. Inquiry.” A pause, then in a lowered tone, tentative. “You are well?”

And, _oh_, does another shiver of pleasure grip him like a plague, hearing that ancient synth when he’s still gripping his stubbornly aroused cock. What his lust-muddled brain offers, useless, shameful: turn around and show Vihaan-9 just what had his heart rate so elevated—no, never, how could he—

“Y-yes,” Siebren croaks, immediately wincing. “Just...just finishing up things here.”

“Additional inquiry. May I clean?”

Siebren swallows. Hard. He couldn’t mean, did he see, could he know? What other biometrics could the omnic read from this distance? Heat signatures? The universe could swallow him now and he’d thank it.

“Clean?” Siebren manages.

“The laboratory. Affirmative.” Notes of soft confusion in his reply.

“Oh, yes, yes of course.” It takes all of Siebren’s effort not to slap his own forehead, gingerly tucking himself away. “Please, return in a few minutes. I am nearly finished.”

“Very well.”

Siebren only manages to breathe again when the laboratory door slides closed. He sits still for a moment or two, then sighs, wipes his hands with a wayward cloth, grimacing. Sighs again when he gets on his hands and knees to cleans his own mess off the tile, joints twinging. Better that than Vihaan-9 realizing _exactly _what he had been _finishing up_ when he entered the room. He grabs his coat and turns the music down, but not off, hoping that Vihaan-9 would enjoy the atmosphere as he performed his duties.

Siebren does not expect the omnic to be lingering outside the lab door.

“Oh, Vihaan-9.” Again, the urge to slap himself intensifies as telltale warmth colors his cheeks.

“Apologies,” he nods once, the cool ruby of his optic captivating in the low light. A strange pause. Siebren stiffens, but the omnic only tilts his head. “Good night, doctor.” Gentle. Was that...amusement?

“Yes. Goodnight,” Siebren stammers, walking much too quickly towards the exit, most definitely imagining the omnic’s gaze following his swift departure.

-

Vihaan-9 enters the laboratory. The building had been cleaner than usual, a perk from the latest firmware upgrades that enhanced maintenance efficiencies, his schedule shortened by 36 minutes and 29 seconds. He had hoped to finish early, to perhaps speak with the doctor who had spent night after night alone at his desk, a man in his own universe of mathematics and melodies penned by humans many centuries dead. He had hoped...but the doctor had seemed unwell. Too much working. Unfortunate, but understandable. Humans are, first and foremost, delicate.

With slightly drooped shoulders, Vihaan-9 begins to clean, first the equipment, re-calibrating some of the finer tools, then emptying the receptacles scattered about the laboratory. He rarely cleared the holo screens, equations bright and hovering at chest height, noting as he always did the doctor’s harried scratchings that served as his penmanship, like he had to write as quickly as possible or the thread would be lost forever. An omnic did not have such problems, but there is something endearing to it, something uniquely human that Vihaan-9 enjoys.

It is then, optic glancing from screen to screen, he notices something entirely non-academic. Notices, and several of his hands fly to his mouth at once, unable to ascertain the slew of prompts bombarding his HUD. 

The doctor...he had? When he—

The quirks in Dr. de Kuiper’s behavioral patterns, the bright, insistent flush, the _stammering_— steam floods from Vihaan-9’s vents as he continues to hold his face. He stands like that 56 seconds, finally returning close to his standard temperatures as his processes race.

His optic brightens, then returns to normal. He leans over the doctor’s desk, a set of hands settling on the holo keys hovering just above. Before he can stop himself, he types:

_The feeling is mutual. — V_


End file.
